Why You Should Never Buy Locally Grown Beets
by enjoiturbulence
Summary: Concerning Todd Packer and locally grown beets.


**Why You Should Never Buy Locally Grown Beets**

_Don't own nothing but my words._

One of the few times a year he can be in town but that little punk can't get away from his girlfriend for one night to do some drinking, so Packer finds himself alone in a small little bar, the only customer. The place is called Lloyd's, but he's not sure whether or not the bartender is Lloyd or not. He's reading Tolstoy between bringing Packer drinks, an expensive label cigar hanging on his lips. He's short and big, most of it muscle, as Packer can see.

Packer's watching a baseball game, the season having just started, but he doesn't really care. He just keeps the drinks coming and wishes some ass would walk through that door. He likes the place but is seriously considering heading over to Poor Richard's.

He's about to make the tender get off his ass and bring him another beer when the bell above the door rings and a couple guys in much nicer suits than Packer walk in. One of them is big, six-six easy and all muscle, the other not quite as tall or built as the other.

"How you doing tonight, Marshall?" the small guy asked.

"Pretty good, sir. Get you a drink?"

"A Guinness for me and Vinnie would be great."

"Of course," Marshall, the tender, replies before heading for the taps.

"Can I get a Bud while you're at it?" Packer asks. Marshall, he shoots a glare with his black eyes at Packer, not answering, just pouring the drinks for the two of them.

"Business is moving tonight, huh?" the smaller guy jokes.

"It's a usual Tuesday night," Marshall says, sitting the two drinks on the bar.

"I'll say," he replies, taking a sip and getting some foam on his upper lip. Packer looks the guy over. Black hair short but slicked back, no stubble along his jaw, a crooked nose. He's got a tattoo on his wrist, but Packer can't make it out what it is from where he sits. He and Vinnie drink their beers in just a few gulps.

"Think I could get a drink over here?" Packer says, a bit louder.

The tender doesn't respond. Instead, he walks over to the old cash register, opens it up, and grabs an envelope under the till. He walks over and hands it to the small guy, who doesn't open it but slips it into his suit jacket.

"Hope it suffices," Marshall says.

"I'm more than sure it is. Need anything this week?"

"We should be good here."

"Good. Give your wife my greetings."

"I will."

"Can I get a fucking beer over here or are you two just going to suck each other's dicks all night?" Packer yells. This gets everyone's attention, and Packer's too stupid to even squirm under the collective looks of the three.

"What was that?" the smaller guy asks.

"I'm just wondering if I can get a drink here or if he's going to look over your fagot-ass all night."

The small guy shares a glance with Marshall, who just shakes his head dismissively.

"I think you should apologize," the big guy suggests.

"I think I need a fucking beer down here."

"What are you drinking, friend?" the small guy asks.

"Fucking Bud."

"Of course you are. Marshall, get this man a drink." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a gold money clip stuffed with bills. He places several twenties on the bar before moving closer to Packer.

"What's you're name?"

"Todd Packer."

"Todd Packer," the man repeats. "What do you do for a living, Todd Packer?" The large guy moves unnoticed to a few feet behind Packer.

"I'm a salesman."

"A salesman."

"You got a hearing problem, queer?"

"You should apologize, friend," the big guy says.

"You should fuck off, cocksucker." Packer barely glances at the big guy behind him. Marshall brings him a glass that's mostly head and puts it in front of him.

"No, Todd Packer, I don't have a hearing problem, but my friend Vinnie here, he does have a point. There's no need to be so rude. I'd be glad to get your drinks for the night."

"I'm not going to fucking apologize for to a Gordon Gecko-motherfucker like you."

"Man," Vinnie starts, but the smaller man just holds up a hand.

"No, Vin, he said what he said. My father always taught me to accept the consequences, and so I've lived that way my whole life. With whatever I say, whatever decisions I make or actions I take, I've always accepted the consequences when they come. I've lived a rather good life, to be sure. Everyone has to live with the consequences of their lives, good or bad, but you've got to accept them and be happy with them. Everyone does."

"You got a fucking point, fagot?"

"Of course I do. The point is, as I said, everyone has to live with the consequences. It's the lucky few that don't."

"'That don't' what?"

"That have to live with the consequences."

"The fuck does that even mean?"

The small guy smiles before reaching into his coat-pocket and pulling out a revolver and putting it to Packer's head and pulling the trigger. Smoke curled upwards from the barrel, viscera littered the floor.

"Think you ought to close early, Marshall."

"Guess so. What do you want to do with him?"

"Might as well make some money with him. There's a beet farm just outside of town. We could turn him into, I'm thinking, two-hundred pounds of fertilizer."

"Either that or the pig farm," Vinnie says.


End file.
